Of Ashes
by silvereyedbitch
Summary: Post Reichenbach Fall. It's 7 months after the fall, and John finds a journal written in a familiar hand.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: **I don't own the BBC Sherlock characters herein.

**Summary: **Post Reichenbach Fall. It's 7 months after the fall, and John finds a journal written in a familiar hand.

**Warnings:** M/M, emotional angst

**Of Ashes**

Over and over he fell before John's eyes. Sometimes from the roof, sometimes from the clear blue sky. Always with that same determination to take his own life, and with no variation in the ending. And it always ended; no, he was never spared that vision. That horror. Tonight's dream being no different, the poor doctor watched as his best friend stood on the end of his bed, facing away from him and gazing down as if the floor was not simply a few feet below him. Sherlock's dark curls moved as if brushed through by a wind that wasn't there. Just as _he_ wasn't, _couldn't_ be, there. With a glance over his shoulder, the detective locked eyes with John. And then he began the drift forward, with the older man already moving to grab him, to pull him to safety. But never was there enough time, enough speed, for John to save his friend. He was helpless against the fate cast on this other man who seemed destined to repeat his death every night in the doctor's dreams.

And just as John reached the edge of the bed, clambering over and onto floor, Sherlock's form disappeared from sight. He found himself half-sprawled on the floor, clawing at the carpeting, tears beginning to prick his eyes as, once again, he had witnessed the fall. He clenched a fist and brought it down hard on floor, remaining there some minutes before feeling an odd sensation sweep over and through him. He pushed up and spun in one movement, coming to face his bed in a semi crouch. And then he staggered forward, holding himself up with one palm against the footboard. There before him, on his comforter and among his pillows, lay the bloodied and broken form of Sherlock Holmes, blood slowly pooling and seeping around him. That pale face with those sightless eyes staring into the beyond. His vision swam as his breathing became frantic, heart beating wildly beneath his ribs. Soon he could no longer see clearly at all, as if he had been whisked away to another dimension where the other senses took precedence.

And he soon came to realize that he was covered in something. Blood. Dark and thick. Everywhere, copper tang and metallic stench. Covering his body, entering his mouth and nose. His stomach rebelled, attempting to force bile up and push out the offending fluid. But blood was the stronger and forced its way downward, causing him to choke as some of it avoided his epiglottis and slid down into his lungs. Now gasping for air, he clawed at his throat, but it was too late for him as well. He fell to his knees in this blinded world, and then onto his side as his struggles became feebler with each passing moment. His heart pounded in his head, drowning out all other sound. And at the last edge of conscious thought, he tried to whisper, though it came out as more of a gurgle, "Sher…k."

Eyes flying open to discover himself firmly wrapped in his blankets and shining with a cold sweat, John began to form rational thoughts once more. _Nightmare. Again_. They were almost nightly, but not usually so intense. His heart was still racing as the adrenaline subsided and left him with a nauseated, hollow feeling. And how he hated this! This helplessness, this tragic unfairness and permanence of his friend's death. The knowledge that no matter how hard he wished, or tried, or prayed, nothing would ever change the fact that Sherlock, his best friend, was dead. His hands clenched as the tears began. His friend had gone where John could never follow. One last adventure, but he made it alone. How like him! And a macabre chuckle issued forth from the tears dimming his vision. For what else was there to do but find a way to move through this heavy loss? Even seven months into it, and he still couldn't get past it.

He moved through his morning rituals with a zombie-like attendance. Mrs. Hudson may have come by, but truthfully, he was in such a way today that he had no means of deciphering whether her visit had occurred this day or the one before. Finally, he could slightly understand the manner in which Sherlock had been able to become lost in his thoughts and disregard all the world around him. Perhaps he should create his own "mind palace" in order to further retreat from, and avoid, the outside world altogether? He wondered how that would work. Could he avoid the pain by secluding himself within memories that held only a living breathing detective?

Sighing deeply, he was just about to settle himself down onto his tatty old armchair, resigned to staring at the empty space that his friend should have occupied, when he caught sight of the little notebook. He caught himself and pushed off towards the composing table where Sherlock used to scribble his various sheet music compositions. There upon its darkened surface lay the untouched workings of a most brilliant mind. He gazed down at them blankly, attempting to remain objective for the moment, as his eyes settled on the notebook peeking out from underneath several other unfinished works. He had noticed it a few days ago, but had paid it no mind at the time. Most likely it was a book of further compositions, and since he was not particularly musically inclined, he left it be.

Now, though, something had caused him to notice it once more. Perhaps Mrs. Hudson had moved it a bit when she came to straighten things? She did that infrequently, but even then, she was not prone to moving the late detective's things. She probably sensed the small comfort that John took from having things just as they were. As if the younger man would come bounding in the door at any moment, hollering for John to grab his coat and fly out in the night with him to solve crimes. _If only_, thought the good doctor as he reached hesitantly for the worn booklet.

He flipped open the cover and found not music within, but writing. Much writing. Unmistakably penned in the hand of the world's first, and last, consulting detective. And as his eyes scanned the page, he realized with a start that it was a journal of sorts. Heart jumping ahead of him, he quickly located a date at the bottom of the first page. January 29th. His heart stuttered. Stopped. He closed the notebook and held it to his chest for a moment before quickly returning to his armchair, where he flopped down and arranged himself before opening the little book once more. He tried to contain his eagerness so as not to harm the much abused pages. He could almost hear his friend's voice leap out from the words on the page, written in a flourishing penmanship.

_I cannot seem to order my thoughts easily today, so I have chosen to write them down so as to better review and delineate from them later. I met someone today. A potential flatmate. How horrid for him. And for me. Or so I thought. But he wasn't put off by my, well, myself. Oh, he was curious about me, as most are upon first meeting me. But the telling difference was that he didn't then spurn my company thereafter, even after my pointing out of physical flaws, such as the psychosomatic limp he has developed from his time at war. Although, as it stands, I believe I was exceptionally mild on him, as I withheld further deductions, such as I also believe he wears those frumpy jumpers and sweaters in an unconscious effort to make himself less attractive because he lacks the self-confidence to see how genuinely and refreshingly handsome he is. But, as I said, I held back this information, as I believe I had deduced him enough to test his mettle._

John pulled back from reading momentarily. Handsome? He thought. And then he picked at the so-called "frumpy" jumper he was wearing presently. Sighing to himself, he figured he truly was grateful Sherlock had left that part out. Now, he was able to chuck off a comment like that as just "Sherlock being Sherlock," but back then he might not have seen it that way. He had thought him odd enough at that beginning point as it was. His eyes returned to the words on the paper.

_We met later to look at the flat together, which I had already taken the liberty of moving into, as I predicted he would be agreeable to the arrangement. Mrs. Hudson was her usual horrid talkative self, but he didn't mind, or at least didn't show it. However, what I found remarkable about this man was not his ability to tolerate my manner in short turns, nor his ability to banter with annoying elders concerning their inconsequential health issues. No. Lestrade had a case for me, and I needed an assistant. And my new flatmate rose to the challenge! He's an army doctor, and therefore very much used to gruesome things that crime scenes can present. His in-depth medical knowledge is a shared boon that enabled me to quite nicely snub Anderson as well! My flatmate's interest and dedication was to be admired as he worked alongside me to discover the murderer of several individuals._

_We traveled all over, researching for the case. Stopped in at Angelo's for a bite to eat where my new flatmate asked some of the strangest questions of me. I think we had a bit of a weird moment then, but it passed soon after, when I thought I'd spotted what I was looking for across the street. I found it quite amusing how the other man leaped up to chase after me, leaving his cane in the restaurant, proving my earlier point concerning his limp._

_At any rate, we had a thorough night of chasing down one particular criminal who had acted alone. It ended up being a cabbie that had decided to murder others in exchange for money for his children from a certain "sponsor," which I later was able to wring from him as being "Moriarty." I don't recognize the name but will keep it mind in case it becomes important in the future. Everything else was all well and good as I had managed to meet with the cabbie alone. He needed an audience, someone to appreciate his work. However, during the time when I had managed to get alone with this murderer and discover his methods and reasoning, my flatmate had tracked our whereabouts. I was involved in a sort of mental wrestling with the cabbie, who had played a game of chance with all of the victims, having them choose a pill to take that had a 50/50 chance of being poisoned while he took the other pill. I was a somewhat willing participant in his little game, having just chosen my pill from his bottles when the cabbie was suddenly shot through the window from a building right next to ours._

_I soon after discovered that the shooter had been my new flatmate. He had seen me with the pill and decided to act before anything happened. I assured him that there had been no true danger; that I would never have really taken the pill. I think he sensed, deep down, that I was lying, but it's hard to tell for sure._

John stopped again, saying out loud, "I knew it. Damn it. I _knew_ it!" And then he returned to the words once more.

_He shot someone for me; killed him. I have no idea how I inspired such supreme confidence in this admirably calm and loyal retired soldier, but I am very grateful for it. He was of great aid to me on this case, and his ever present amazement of my deduction abilities is quite a pleasant change from the usual "piss off" response most have no trouble giving me. He even praises out loud, though I wonder if even realizes he's doing it half the time. I like it, though, so I won't challenge it. _

_We returned to the flat and were able to chat comfortably about the events of the case. And I wasn't annoyed or bored at all! That sounds so…well, anyway. I wasn't bored, and that is a __**huge**__ thing for me to say. I think this is the beginning of something great. Something big. I sense a change coming. And I'll be ready for it. Watching. Waiting. With John Watson there beside me. _ _–SH_ …_January 29__th_…

John closed his eyes as he finished the first entry, feeling happy and sad all at once. Was it possible to die, yet remain alive to feel the death eat at you? It certainly felt that way to him. For this brief time, he had been able to put away thoughts of his friend being dead. But now that they returned, it felt as though they were doubled inside of him. He blew an exasperated breath through pursed lips, glancing again at the notebook he had unconsciously clasped against himself. He flipped the pages through his fingers, feeling the amount of them, thinking it was going to take him at least a full day to read through it all. And now that he had begun, he didn't want to stop.

Thinking himself somewhat silly, but doing it all the same, he called the clinic and told them he wouldn't be in the next day or so. That settled, he went to the kitchen to bring back tea and biscuits, being sure to bring plenty so he wouldn't have to move for a while. Then, settling back down in a more relaxed position, he pulled the book over onto his lap and prepared himself to spend the next couple of days in remembrance of his best friend. He would read this little journal, and when he finished, he would go to the gravesite to speak. Yes. That felt right somehow. And so he flipped to the next page and continued as he sipped his tea, morning light just beginning to filter in through the dusty windows.

A/N: So, anyone interested?


	2. Chapter 2

John reads…

_I have decided that I do enjoy writing out my thoughts. Yes. Normally they fly back and forth, to and fro, at times so swift as to be there and gone before I can even grasp what I was pondering in the first place. Here, with this tiny book, I am forced to slow the process down to the pace of my own handwriting, which is enabling me to focus with more precision upon any specific idea I choose to. On with said thoughts…_

_How marvelous this is. My new flatmate/assistant John Watson. I couldn't have asked for a more easygoing and accommodating partnership. Perhaps I shall stop placing odd things in Mike Stamford's drinks from now on. As a thanks for introducing us. Probably not, but he should be aware that me even considering this was a high compliment to him._

_We solved another case together. John and I that is, not Mike. I won't recount it here, as John has done his own rendition of our cases in a blog of all things, so I see no purpose in rewriting them. Funny, at first the blogging annoyed me, especially seeing as how he seemed to be at once complimentary and insulting of myself and my methods. After all, what ever does it matter who the inane celebrities on the telly are? Or where, specifically, we are placed within the solar system? Or how my tea appears by my side? It is there, and I drink it. No mystery needing to be unraveled. These things have no place within the logic and reason of my mind. They are unimportant minutia, and I delete them. _

_But as I thought more and more over the wording utilized by my blogger in his descriptions of our interactions during the case, I began to realize that this is just his way of coming to terms with my sociopathic tendencies. He is trying to humanize me by exploring what he perceives as my weak areas. He finds comfort in it, I believe. Thinking I'm human. Hmmm. Silly man._

_After this latest case involving a Chinese tong, I have discovered something new about myself. Something I have been lacking is now present. An audience. Namely, an audience of one John Watson. I find myself oddly proud to be associated with him; and though I am known to have no friends, I am certain people will think we are. And this makes me happy. I am not often happy…_

_I find myself "showing off," as he calls it, more and more. Craving the praise that often falls unknowingly from his lips. No one else has ever treated me thus, like a real person, not an entertainment or freak. I even find myself jealous of his time. When he took that job at the clinic, I felt a twinge then. But when he started dating that Sarah girl… I don't know. It was odd. I don't even know how to describe it. I felt as though I would be competing for attention. Childish, I know, but there it is._

_Anyway, after the tong incident, she was badly shaken, so maybe she will retreat from him for a while. This brings me a guilty sort of pleasure. Not that I wanted something bad to happen to her so she'd leave, but the fact that it just might end up that way gives me a shameful optimism. Now if only he didn't have to return to that bloody clinic. Bah. I need more cases. I feel I'm rambling on like a teenager now. – SH …Maybe March, not sure. Doesn't matter…_

John finished the entry, laughing internally at Sherlock's lack of knowledge of the day's date. Here he had much to think on. How flattered he was to see how early on he had had an effect on the reclusive detective. And how Sherlock had written about it…it gave him a warmth he hadn't known was possible. His friend, his sociopathic, strange, moody best friend, had thrived on someone else's attention. Was jealous of it even. Of course, John was already aware of this, to a degree. But to have it laid out so plain, and in Sherlock's own hand, gave him a reassurance that nothing else could.

Even the comments about how he had written concerning the detective in his blog had been tinged with a fondness. And he did not see that Sherlock had outright _denied_ the fact that he was, indeed, human. He closed his eyes for a second, picturing his friend at one of his happiest moments. The creases at the corners of the detective's eyes as he smiled. His almost childish expression of delight. And his laugh. That beautiful low baritone that rumbled out from the depths of the younger man's soul, touching John's own in turn as he gave in to its pull.

He sighed, opening his eyes and reaching for his cup, now cold. He grimaced, standing to get some plain water from the kitchen and flipping on the TV as he went in order to catch the local news as he rinsed the tea cup and returned with his water. But when he passed back into the living area, he quickly switched it off again, seeing the chosen topic for the day. Not even a few days ago, Sherlock had finally been cleared of all his accused crimes. John was unsure of the details, but he had watched in disbelief the first time he saw it run on the news. Lestrade had tried to tell him, he supposed. But when the man had tried to call him earlier that week, he had chosen to not answer the phone and let it go to the message machine. Which he never did check. He did that a lot lately.

What he did know was that, while he was gladdened to see his friend's name cleared, he also didn't care because it still didn't change the fact that Sherlock was gone. It was all well and good to be able to prove that he had been right all along, but the past couldn't be changed, and the past was what he hated. He closed his eyes again, but this time remembered that the final conversation he had had with Sherlock had been an argument. That is, if you didn't count the short, bitter phone conversation afterwards that ended in the fall. "Damn," he muttered to himself. He had been feeling better up until that news program.

Glancing at the clock, he noted that it was almost noon. Well, one more entry, and then off to lunch maybe. The day looked like it was going to become overcast and rain later, so he'd better get the shopping done, too, while he was out. He took a small sip of the water and opened the notebook to where he had stopped, tracing his fingers over the lettering before flipping to the next entry.

A/N: Thanks for the notes of kindness/encouragement. We'll see where this fic takes me. I have an idea, but will let the story direct me as it will. Could be just a peaceful little remembrance fic. Could be a reunion. Could be John ending up suicidal at the final revelation of his friend's true feelings. So many possibilities! LOL! Gotta keep y'all guessing. And hopefully wanting a bit more. Thanks!


	3. Chapter 3

John reads…

_I… I, don't know what to say. How unusual. Something new and terrible and fascinating happened. John's blog covers the particulars of the case, which he has endearingly titled "The Great Game." Look there if it so pleases you to do so. Moriarty. Yes, finally. Jim Moriarty. Consulting criminal. He plays the game as well as I, though with more hedonistic consequences to his actions. Whereas I am unemotional in the face of most human death, still I do not seek to inspire or cause it. Sociopathic as I am, I can still recognize right and wrong, though I may cross some of the grayer lines now and then. But he, this Moriarty, he does whatever suits him in his quest to alter a dull existence into something engaging._

_John doesn't like how complimentary I sound of the man, but I truly am interested in his methods and thought patterns. They run parallel to mine, with divergence only at the forks where good and bad, light and dark, separate into opposing paths. His mind is keen, and he is bored. Just as I am bored. He sees in me a kindred spirit waiting to be turned, and that is part of his challenge, his problem. He teased me with all these puzzling cases, complex and expensive in the extreme. All just to demonstrate his control. His ability to alleviate the stupor of everyday life. Hoping to tempt me into his world with the promise of an end to the tedious everyday living. Testing me. _

_And do you know, I would have gone with him. I would have explored what he was offering, taking the hand of darkness in favor of the light just in pursuit of something to do. But for one thing. One thing that probably seems so insignificant to Moriarty, yet has made all the difference in my world. And so he underestimated my resolve because of this thing. This person. John. John, strong and loyal, who has stayed by my side when my moods strike out at him, when my experiments fail and ruin our things, when he is certain to be in danger…as he was last night._

_I came into the pool room fully confident in my confrontational ability, believing I had the upper hand. And then I saw John. And to my everlasting shame I questioned, just for a second, whether I had been a fool all along. Of course I hadn't been. Moriarty had ensnared my poor John in an explosive vest of the kind used within his earlier case puzzles. And John was calm, so calm. Worry for my safety was the only cause of his discomfort. And when the so-called consulting criminal presented himself, he had us well and fully trapped. _

_John attempted to give me a break for freedom by grappling the man close to himself, and therefore the bomb. Moriarty commented during all of this that he would burn the heart out of me if I did not comply with his wishes. As was my usual manner, I had denied having such a faulty human error built within myself. But I was wrong, and he knew it. He had already guessed it. And then John was put in a worse situation when the snipers then retrained their weapons on me, causing him to release his hold upon the criminal in an effort to protect me. _

_Jim eventually walked out, leaving us alone. I cannot even describe the haste with which I removed John's explosive vest prior to the criminal then returning to resume our little game, claiming to have changed his mind. We ended up in a stand-off eventually, which ended when his phone rang. Apparently, he was offered something more interesting than dying together, as he called everything off, leaving us with a threat._

_Bad as that all seems in retrospect, what I meant at the beginning of this entry, the new and terrible and fascinating thing, was not any of that. No. When we returned to Baker Street, and had settled down in the flat to relax and debrief, it happened. Nothing. Silence within my mind. It began as I was reconsidering the terror I had felt at the thought of John, my blogger, my flatmate, my John, dying. What followed that thought was utter stillness within my mind. That has never happened before. __**Never**__. What does it mean?! It terrified me at first, but I soon deciphered it as not being a threat. Merely strange and somewhat uncomfortable as I was unaccustomed to it. Is that how normal people's brains function? I should think it must be very odd for them if so. Ugh. Just thinking of it now returns me to that state of mind. Forget it. –SH …Sometime, might still be March, maybe April, though…_

John looked up from the page. He hadn't thought there was any way that another one of these entries could have touched him any more than the last one did, but, well, here it was. As before, he was well aware that Sherlock had cared for him, feared for him, etc. But the close-mouthed, introverted detective hardly ever shared thoughts out loud, and so one had to interpret it all from actions. And John was fine with that. But having their friendship confirmed here in his very hands…he could hardly breathe for a minute. He had even stumbled and had to read over and over the two times when Sherlock had passingly referred to him as "my poor John" and "my John." His eccentric friend was always very possessive, and so it should come as no shock to see himself written of as an object to be owned. But it did something to him, inside, that began to melt away some of the hurt of the last conversation they had had.

Looking back now, John could see that Sherlock had been trying to protect _him_, not himself, from his impending death. He tried to send him away; that was the purpose of their argument and the false report of Mrs. Hudson's grave condition. He just hadn't ever really taken the time to ponder over those events that took place just before "it" had happened. They pained him to the point of physical anguish. He still didn't like thinking about it, but with this perspective of caring laid over everything, he was better able to handle it. And so he internalized this new perspective, letting slide a single tear as he did, before wiping his cheek with the back of his hand and standing.

He stretched long, turning his gaze over all the room's contents. Each thing bringing a particular memory of the dark haired, brooding detective to mind. He smiled once more, stepping away and towards the door. He laid the notebook down on the table beside his chair as he went by. Grabbing his jacket and pulling it on, he snagged the keys and closed the door, on his way out for lunch and shopping. His emotional healing would continue when he returned to the flat later that afternoon.

A/N: I hear your requests, and I _am_ taking them into consideration. After all, I have to please the audience, to a point... However, my final decision will be a secret, of course. Or else it wouldn't be so much fun hearing from y'all!


	4. Chapter 4

John returned to the flat almost three hours later, plastic shopping bags in hand and almost spilling out as he rounded the corner into the kitchen. He cursed as he just managed to catch the apple from the edge of the counter as it escaped from its bag. He was feeling good, really good in fact. And as he placed the items in their allotted locations within the cupboards and fridge, he found himself becoming excited at the thought of sitting back down with the journal. Though it was, indeed, a reminder of how far away his friend was from his reach now, it was also a comfort. The words contained within were bringing him to a new level of understanding with the man, the enigma, that had been Sherlock Holmes.

He bustled about until finally reaching a point where he could return to his chair and start on another section of the now prized journal. He was immensely appreciative that his friend had managed to translate his thoughts into words for this purpose, though he doubted he had ever meant it for this use. And he felt a special kind of connection with the deceased as he read his private thoughts, so beautifully penned across the well-beaten, crumpled sheets of cheap paper. There was even a smudge of an inked fingerprint in the corner of this next entry. He traced it with his finger, seeing his friend's hand in his mind as he must have held the notebook while writing. His eyes then fell from the print and to the words below.

_It's been months, and we've still heard nothing further from Moriarty. I don't expect that to remain the same, though. He was far too thorough and attracted to the idea of me being a problem he needs to solve for me to think he will just simply slip away. In the meantime, John's blog has netted us several interesting cases. As usual, they are well-documented in his blog. A band of activists utilizing comics to stage murders, a blonde woman murdered by her stepfather through use of poison placed in a bath product, and the switching of stage props that resulted in the death of an actor. Each time, John was there, offering his opinion, collecting things for me, picking up after me, and making sure I ate somewhat regularly. _

_It's quite touching how he looks after me. I think it must be a result of how he must have had to look after his sister all those years. But I appreciate it nonetheless. Not sure if he knows I appreciate it, but the fact that I do is something, isn't it? And even during these cases, whenever the possibility of him coming to harm presented itself in my thoughts, I found myself in a similar state of mind as I have described in my previous entry. It is becoming very disconcerting, more so because I cannot understand it and have nothing to relate it to. It's only with him, though. And I am becoming increasingly, I guess I'll call it, 'jealous' of the parade of moronic females he drags through the flat. What could possibly possess him to want to spend time with _them_ instead of finding something interesting, like a case or an experiment? But then, I suppose that's why I am the world's only consulting detective._

_Moving forward, the most interesting self-observation I have made lately came this time in the form a woman. Or should I say "The Woman." Irene Adler. Dead now, or so everyone is to believe… But when I met her, I was utterly stone cold flabbergasted. Here was my mirror in female form! Cold, calculating, intelligent, and interesting. She had built herself impenetrable walls of protection. Or so she thought. John and everyone else possessed of a normal brain thought me well and truly taken in by her. And in a manner I was, just not the way they thought. They believed my motivations towards her to be on the romantic side. And perhaps, just for a second, a fleeting moment, it may have crossed my mind. I am only human after all, as John is fond of thinking anyway. _

_But no. Our relationship was more cognitive, despite what physical looks might appear to have indicated, with my side more worshipful perhaps. It was like meeting a better version of yourself. She may have been a female mirror of me, but she held more control and was more able to function in the world and find pleasure within it than I. And I found that absolutely fascinating about her. Riveting. I wanted to study her. Find out how she did it. How she elevated herself above the noise and boredom and tediousness of this world. But then she was gone._

_I thought at first my world had fractured somewhat, leaving a piece of my puzzle missing without the knowledge of her being out there. It was not love, as John and Molly and others have thought. It was more like: Suppose one day you found that the God you worshipped had passed beyond your reach or died. Or even been proved false. It takes something away from you that cannot be replaced. And then, when she revealed herself to John as being alive months later… I admit I reacted poorly. I understood, but, well, let's skip that shall we?_

_The thing her death and subsequent return did for our relationship and understanding of one another was to break my spell of wonder. Her fault mostly, because even after all the understanding that had passed between us in the short times we were physically present in the same room, I had believed her to have a better understanding of my internal workings. I was proved wrong, however, when I saw her repeatedly try after me with her physical guiles. She should have known better. Much better. I thought her more clever than that. I can play the game, the physical game between man and woman. And I did. But I had thought she had already seen through me._

_But, perhaps, she did? Comments originating from her seemed to admit that she perceived as much. Saw the truth of things. The nasty, unrequited…nevermind. Perhaps she merely thought a third person would not be unwelcome? Or perhaps she thought to displace the other from my heart? But as I said, she misjudged, and thought herself worthy of that position._

John read the passage over and over again to himself. What? Third person? Displace the "other?" What the hell? No matter how he tried, he couldn't make heads or tails of it, and soon he gave it up as one of the enigmatic statements that Sherlock was so fond of making in order to have those around him scratch their heads while he had a private joke. Sighing, he picked up where he left off.

_She was wrong. There will never be another to fill that space, as it will remain filled until my dying day. And beyond, if I have any say in it. –SH …I think it's actually March again. Different year, of course… _

John sat back against the cushions, his mind circling these few pages of recounted thoughts and deeds. The last two lines had hit him hard, prophetic-like, and his eyes had begun to fill. But with determination not to make this into a depressing experience, he refocused more on the positives. Yet again, Sherlock had surprised him with his praise and his "jealousy" over others consuming the doctor's time. Of course, Sherlock being Sherlock, he would probably never have understood what it was that propelled John into relationship after relationship. Or then again? He glanced back the last parts. "What _other_?" he whispered into the quiet of the flat.

Just then, Mrs. Hudson burst through the door, tea held before her, and smiled sunnily at him as she set it down beside him. Little slices of cake and some turnovers accompanied the tea. "Mrs. Hudson, really, you don't have to do this sort of thing," he stammered, embarrassed that she had almost caught him in a vulnerable state of emotions. But she was oblivious. "Oh, I heard you come in a while back and thought you'd probably be turning a bit peckish any time now. I was already making tea for myself, and I have so many of these little cakes. Don't want to ruin my figure," she laughed as she gestured down her frame.

He laughed, looking away for a moment toward the mantle and fireplace so she couldn't catch the last glimmer of tears hanging there, unshed. She moved about a bit, first taking his old cup into the kitchen, and then returning after to straighten a couple things on the couch. While she bustled about, John continued to gaze at the mantle. Something not seeming quite right about it. Hadn't the skull been facing towards the kitchen when he had gone out earlier? In fact, hadn't it been that way since…since _then_? He looked to his landlady, asking, "Mrs. Hudson, did you come in and dust any while I was out these last few days?" She turned from what she was doing, a stack of magazines in her hands, replying, "No, not lately dear. And I'm not your housekeeper, so don't start relying on it to keep you tidied up. Now, if you need anything else, or want to watch some telly with me later, just pop on down. There's to be a good criminal mystery show at eight."

He nodded as she left, thoughts focused more on the skull than on conversation. He stood and walked over to it. He was almost sure it had been facing the other way earlier. Perhaps Mrs. Hudson forgot she had moved it? Or maybe she was afraid he'd be cross with her for moving _his_ things. He looked at it, examining its position. Then an idea occurred to him, and he lifted it to check the dust lines. But there weren't any. There was no dust on the entire shelf. He moved over to the bookshelves, checking for dust there, too. None. He stood on the furniture near the shelves to check above the farthest shelf that his landlady ever reached to dust, and found dust finally.

So, it seemed she really had dusted after all, as the cleanliness was in line with her usual performance. And she either forgot, or didn't want him to be mad about her moving things around. Which he wouldn't be, and he thought it strange really that she would be overly concerned about something so simple. But then, people did odd things all the time. Much odder than denying having dusted some shelves. He returned to his chair and the tea with cakes, settling in to begin another section of the journal, having put the whole case-of-the-non-dusty-shelves-and-moving-skull in the back of his mind for now. There were much more interesting things to be doing after all, he thought as he began reading once again.

A/N: Thanks again for all the love being shown so far. I may get to another chapter later tonight or some more tomorrow. Gotta work on Saturday, though. Enjoy! Let me know what y'all think! ;)


	5. Chapter 5

John reads…

_Baskerville. I feel as if our friendship was truly tested there. In the face of hallucinogenic drugs, my antisocial and frankly hateful manner, and a ruthless scientist, John proved once again why his companionship means so much to me. He keeps me even, keeps me sane; and sometimes, when I'm very lucky, he just keeps me. –_What an odd thing to say, John thought to himself as he read the line-_ My behavior left much to be desired during that case. At one point, we argued; or I did at least. And I _could_ delude myself into believing it was just the influence of the drugs on my mind, but I think that maybe that confrontation would have happened sooner or later anyway. I am, after all, a most difficult flatmate, and often just an obnoxious ass. –_Tell me about it_- _

_But as most spats tend to end for people, this one brought us closer. I had not voiced a term for our relationship prior to this. I know John had considered us friends, but I myself had never admitted as much out loud. And I think that this is one thing about me that unnerves even _him_ after long enough. Normal people seem to have no issue with voicing these things, but with me, it almost always must be preceded by intense emotional stress or trauma of some sort in order to drag it from the depths of me. And so it was with great difficulty, yet pleasure, that I had caught him in that church cemetery and confessed to him his status as my one and only friend._

_Friend. Such a small word, with an insignificant sound to it. And yet. And yet, it builds me up. It gives me strength and makes me proud to call John Watson my one true friend. I've never had one, and that it makes it all the more special. I feel things alien to my nature enter my mind now when I consider him. Happiness. Feelings of protectiveness. Possessiveness. Warmth and joy. And strangest to me of all, freedom. For I had always thought that to care for another would be to shackle yourself to them, creating a certain vulnerability. But in reality, it felt more like gaining so much. Strength, security, safety…more encompassing than that, but I lack the words to adequately describe it. And this frustrates me to no end. –_John snorted at the thought of Sherlock being lost for words_—_

_I truly felt badly for tricking John in the laboratory, using him as a kind of experiment. But it was 100% safe, so I felt secure in doing it. I admit I was confused initially when he was angered at this, but I understand now. I think. However, there was something… When he called me, terrified of the hallucinations brought about through the drugs, and I pretended to be looking for him… When I 'located' him, and he immediately found relief in my appearance. The way he suddenly felt secure just from my presence, even though adrenaline still surged through his tightly wound body… The knowledge that I was the source of this…did something within me. Changed something; or perhaps it was simply cemented, having begun to change long before this. And that something is the very reason for this particular entry. –_Huh?_—_

_I pride myself on control. Of my environment. Of my body. But most of all, of my mind. And there is something new there, something different. It has been there for months, but has never forced its way into the open like this. Whereas before, it was kept as my own sort of secret. A secret even I never fully admitted to myself. But after this case… There was a new closeness, a more cohesive camaraderie, between us. The ease of our interactions bespoke years of friendship, not just the 12 or so paltry months we had in reality. The chemistry had been altered; subtly, but yes, that is it. My attitude toward him is different; no longer internalized, it is more difficult to hide. -_What is he on about now?_- The way I…watch him, is different. It's as though my eyes have adjusted the direction of their gaze to always relocate to John's vicinity. I cannot fully understand it, nor control it, and it is driving me mad._

_Oh, I know what label others, the so-called 'normal' people, would place upon it. But I feel there is no label, as such, that applies to this. To us. I shall be delving into this mystery much over the next weeks. It is not something I wish known, and so I must learn to conquer and subdue it before anything else changes. Before anyone else notices… I feel so lost in this. –SH …Another day, maybe a Wednesday. Most probably Summer…_

_P.S. You know, all those times people referred to us as a couple always seemed to irk John, but I never paid them any mind. It occurs to me now…that I _do_ mind; intensely._

John put the notebook down on his lap, looking up in time to see the rain begin to patter against the windows. He glanced at the tea tray, feeling guilty that he had completely forgotten it as he had been reading Sherlock's words. But he couldn't help it. He'd been entranced. These writings were like having a part of the dark haired man here with him again. He moved things around on the plate so it looked more touched, and ate one of the small cakes as well. He moved the tray to the kitchen and straightened things a bit, thinking about dinner. He wanted to finish the journal, even though it was beginning to go off on difficult to understand tangents, which was why it was taking him so long to move through. Each line seemingly needed time for him to decipher what its meaning could truly be. So he'd try to avoid alerting Mrs. Hudson of his intentions, so she wouldn't feel obliged to come check on him. Sitting alone in the flat while it rained, reading his dead best friend's journal, was sure to set her off into thinking he'd lost it.

That settled, he decided he'd order takeaway so he didn't have to spend time cooking. He chuckled to himself as he thought how silly he was to have brought home groceries that very day only to turn around and order takeaway that night. But he wanted to order Sherlock's favorite chinese dish and eat it as he finished the journal. He'd have to wait until morning to go to the grave site, as the rain was not forecasted to let up all evening. And so he called the restaurant and then walked to the stairs, intent on folding some laundry before he ate. He looked down the hall to the closed door of the detective's room. He had only been in it once since the fall, just to tidy the floor a bit and straighten things. Then he had closed the door and never been back. Sometimes, if he was quiet and just shut out his mind, he could pretend that the younger man was just beyond the wood, within easy reach. Perhaps sleeping.

He walked up to the door slowly, placing his hand upon its smooth, cool surface when he came up to it. Closing his eyes, he tried to block out the bad memories and concentrate on the good. _He's there, just behind this thin door, ready to stride out and ensnare me in one of his cases again._ He could see the light within the dark haired man's eyes as they worked an interesting case, intent and clear. The baritone timbre of his voice as he rattled off facts and deductions as though they were as simple as reading comic books gave him a shiver to recall. It was as if he really could hear him, almost, just beyond reasonable hearing range. He spread his fingers out against the smooth grain of the wood, feeling its strength under his fingers. So firm and cool…and just for a flash, in his mind, his fingers were splayed out over Sherlock's chest, so similar in temperature and texture to when he had touched his wrist after the fall, as he lay bloody and broken upon the ground.

He snatched his hand back as if burned, staring in surprise at the door. But the surprise quickly turned to melancholy, with him thinking he'd finally crossed the line of sanity and normal mourning into something more akin to a deep depression. Tears and frustration and helplessness filled his body, creating a powerful ache that had no remedy but that which was unobtainable. _This isn't helping_. He blew a few loud breaths through his mouth and shook his shoulders as he returned to his original duty of laundry, leaving the detective's room still undisturbed.

The laundry took only a few minutes, and then he just puttered around the flat until the delivery mercifully came. All the while, he had thought on the detective's odd words in the last entry. Surely, the other man had seemed confused, which was never a good sign, but John couldn't understand what it was about the dynamic of their relationship that had the detective so wound up. Apparently it had something to do with people thinking they were gay. And though John had generally taken up the defense against that assumption, Sherlock had never seemed to care what people thought. Maybe it finally did start to bother the detective once he began to emerge from his sociopathic shell a bit? It made a sort of sense, he supposed. The better friends they became, and the closer they grew, the more people would talk. Possible, John supposed, but it just didn't seem to fit quite right. He gave up for the moment, setting to unpacking the delivery. The smell was enticing, and also filled him with memories that he determined would be interpreted as happy. Focusing not on what is lost, but on what he had gained through their friendship. And as he sat back down to delve once more into the nebulous mind of Sherlock Holmes, he opened the notebook on his lap, read the first line…and dropped the plate on the floor.

A/N: I know. I know. Naughty me leaving it hanging like this, right? It's so much fun to write this junk, though! LOL!


	6. Chapter 6

John reads…

_I love him. John Hamish Watson. I love him… I have had much time to consider this. But the symptoms are all there. Plain for those who know how to look. How did this happen?! He's my friend. My only friend. My _best_ friend. And this will destroy all that. He was always so vehement in denying us being a couple even when we were clearly not. How could I ever think he would then be able to reciprocate these emotions? They're monstrous, these feelings. They eat away at my soul and consume what is left of my sanity. Surely this is the most hateful and painful of emotions. It is no wonder why I had protected myself from it all these years. But John, dear John, he broke through, and now…here I am. A mess. And as a result, I can barely process the string of dangerous events we have been trying to piece together lately. _

_We have been following a series of crimes that have Moriarty's mark all over them. He orchestrated an entire series of offenses in order to demonstrate his new toy. A computer code that gives access to virtually any information, anywhere. He even arranged for his own arrest and subsequent release, in which I, ashamedly, played a part. Though not knowingly. He dropped by the flat soon after his release, all calm and beguilingly collected as ever. He came to taunt me, but I gave him no satisfaction there. I am wary, though, because he is, after all, the criminal match to myself. Clever in all the wrong ways. _

_He kidnapped children, and made it into a fairy tale game that only I could solve. During the case, Molly noticed me. She noticed! How sad I am. She remarked upon it only briefly, offering her assistance should I need any. Not wanting to confirm her theory, I played my usual card of an oblivious and aloof ass. And she was close, so very close. Sad? Of course I am, but not for the reason she supposes. Certainly I worry, perhaps even fear, that Moriarty may be just one step ahead of me. But my true melancholy stems from the unrequited nature of my love. Nothing should hurt this badly._

_And so I am in a quandary as to what to do with this knowledge. I only reached the conclusion last night, taking the time to consider and reconsider the revelation afterwards before setting pen to paper here in order to straighten out my facts. But there is only _one_ fact, not several. I love him. And the fact that he does not know, and will most probably never know, causes a thousand tiny deaths within me. Perhaps I should simply seek Moriarty out? He says I am his 'final problem,' and I could make it easy for him, because I am not sure that death is not preferable to living in such a state as this. But John would never accept that. My John. It would hurt him so to have me die like that. He may not love me as I do him, but he cares for me all the same. And the thought of causing him pain of any sort stills my hand when I find it reaching for the phone to text Jim my location. Though I fear I will not have long to wait for his contact anyway. The taxi ride home revealed to me, through use of the cab telly, his latest plan. And it is devious in the extreme…to plant such doubt as to discredit my name? Ambitious. _

_I will solve this conundrum between me and John, with or without his knowledge. I have time. First, I will secure our safety in dragging down Moriarty's web of lies and crime until he falls from his spire. Then, I shall set to my issue with a steel-born determination. I will pace myself, though. For I suppose I will have all the time in the world afterwards to find a solution. For now, I will set my sights on Moriarty's defeat. Then, I will solve my own final problem. –SH …Someday, I don't know which… _

The world was crashing down around him. John felt his heart speed to an outlandish tempo as he made it through just the first few sentences before tears glossed his vision and he had to wipe them away to continue. The knot in his throat wouldn't budge, and it only got worse as he read through to the end. He'd never guessed. Never had a clue. It didn't bother him. It really didn't. Sherlock was Sherlock, and he had odd ways. It was all fine. He may not have known what exactly to do with the knowledge of his best friend's love, but he wouldn't have wanted him to keep it within and hurt like this.

The last part, though, ripped through him and left him breathless. "All the time in the world," he mouthed silently, reading it over and over. The anguish was plain in the penmanship that was scrawled all over the pages of this last entry. Here and there, John could see where there must have been tears dried on the paper itself. He had taken it to be water stains or some other carelessness of Sherlock's that had marked the paper so at first. The idea of his friend sitting here, hurting, crying…Sherlock Holmes, _crying_. It was too much. He dropped the journal and almost ran to his room. He needed a more enclosed space to sit and think. The openness of the living area felt too raw and exposed to him right now.

Once in his room, he lay on his stomach on the bed and wept. It was an ugly sort of weeping, the hard kind that rolled up from the bottoms of one's feet and reached even further down into the spirit. The most dejected of sobs originated there, and they poured forth uncensored from the poor doctor. His pillow was soon wet and cold from tears and maybe even snot. He was beyond noticing things like that, though. The wound placed on his soul this night had rendered him incapable of much of anything for a time. And when the sobs slowed a bit, he felt a burning, hollow ache settle in his bones. He had thought there was no possible way he could have ever felt worse than he did when he had lost Sherlock. He was wrong. So much unsaid. So much grief within. He eventually dozed a bit as his overtaxed mind simply capitulated and fell inward.

He awakened a bit later to fully dark windows. A glance at his bedside clock told him he'd been out for about two hours, and the rain was still steadily pounding down. The pain was still present and accounted for as well. And he felt as if gravity had tripled when he rose to walk out of his room. Everything was thick and slow, heavy. His mind was as molasses running over ice. And so he carefully picked his way down the staircase and back into the living area. Back to the journal he had thought would bring him nothing but joy.

He stood over it a minute, almost timid about picking it back up. As if it would cause a flashback of those emotions at their most powerful impact. But he eventually was able to bring it up in his arms and hold it, carefully considering its contents. All of the other entries had brought him some amount of peace, so perhaps he could just fold the pages of the last entry over, effectively removing them from sight. In the future, when time had somewhat dampened his pain, he may choose to once again view the last entry's contents. But until then… He opened the journal to the page that ended with Sherlock saying he would solve his own final problem.

He made to fold the pages over, but noticed writing behind them. His heart thudded. He'd missed a part! There was more! And then he recoiled in fear, closing the book. What if it was more of the same? But he shook his head, knowing that even if it caused him to revisit the pain of a few hours ago, it would still be worth it to read more of his friend's writings. He felt he owed it to him to 'hear out' his confessions and angst. But when had the detective found time to write more after that last entry? The previous entry had ended right before Sherlock and he were almost arrested and had had to run from the police. When had he come back to the flat? Maybe sometime when he had left John after they had confronted that stupid reporter and found Moriarty with her? It seemed a long shot, but it was all he could come up with. _Enough speculation_, he admonished himself, and he opened the journal fully as he sat down on the arm of his chair, bracing himself for what he might find inside. But not even a strong shooter of whiskey and a full day's preparation could have steadied him for what he read next…

A/N: Ah, here we go now…where am I heading?


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N:** Alright, I had to do a bit of a different style of text/typing here in parts to avoid confusion as to who is thinking/talking. Nothing big, just, Sherlock's journal entries will now be both italicized AND enclosed within parentheses. Hopefully, this will avoid confusion. Let me know if it's not working for you, though, and I'll try something else. I had thought to use the Bold feature, but it just looked annoying. Anyway, let me know!

John reads…

Or at least he tried to. The words swam before his vision. Not being nearly as long as the other entries, he had caught sight of the "date" at the end before he could even begin to translate written words into an understandable language within his mind. He stared at it, trying to make sense of it. Misunderstanding it, surely. And yet, there it was: "…_Today, I think. Perhaps late evening?_..." His mind was seeing what it wanted to. After all, 'today' could mean the same day as the previous entry, right? Right. He looked up, stood up, and took in the surroundings. Everything was as it should be. Quiet. Settled. Empty.

The skull caught his eye again. No. He crossed to it. Minute. Infinitesimal. But it was different. Just a centimeter, maybe not even that, but it _was_ turned. Had to have been. Otherwise, he was truly hallucinating now. His body felt strange, heavy and shaky. Weak. He couldn't swallow, could barely keep his breathing calm. Okay, sod that; his breathing _wasn't_ calm. But he fought for control. Who was doing this to him? Mycroft was the only one he knew to have the ability and resources. Or maybe…no, Jim Moriarty was dead. But this stank of the level of cruelty he could display. His mind revolved around that for but moments before dispelling the idea entirely. No. _This is hysteria and desperation clawing into my already seriously depressed state_. Calm. Breathe. Just breathe. And he did, feeling the world slow around him once more.

When he opened his eyes eventually, he was once again within his rational mind. He disregarded his supposed discovery of the traveling skull and made his way back over to the upended journal. With a deep breath, he picked it up and sat firmly back upon the armchair, feeling more secure between its cushioned surroundings. He calmly flipped to the now-last entry, reassuring himself that the wording of 'today' in the space for the date was simply referring to the same day as the last entry. As if the detective had done a post-script, but found it too long for the traditional P.S. demarcation. And so, he read…

"_John. Can you hear me?" _

John closed his eyes for a moment. _Yes, God, I hear you Sherlock_, he thought. That first bit sent a chill of electricity through him_._

"_I have made my confession, hard as it was. Though writing it down was by far easier than what I would have done had I been able to express it properly. Verbally. Out loud. We never had time for me to get to that point, though, did we?"_

John looked quizzically at the page. _What is he on about? We were running from the police all the rest of that night and the next day; of course we had no time_. And again, he wished his friend would have just come out and said what was on his mind so as to avoid the internal strife he must have suffered during his final hours. Lost time and words unsaid began to creep up inside of John as he continued to read his friend's last words.

"_I had always believed we would be together forever. As friends, or something more; it didn't matter. As long as we had each other to fall back on. I would be content. My friend. John Watson. You are my reason to keep going, hard as it has been. There are no words that can express my gratitude for what your friendship means to me."_

"Oh Sherlock," John moaned in a whisper, feeling his heart clench at the words pouring forth onto the page in front of him_._

"_I won't make this entry into a long, drawn out affair, my purpose being somewhat selfish and most assuredly silly. Full of sentiment. Human error. You'd laugh, I'm sure. But, please, there's just one more thing, one more thing; one last miracle, John, for me." _

John almost choked as he read the last words, so eerily familiar to him. As if he had channeled his friend's last thoughts while at his graveside that day_. _He shook it off as coincidence.

"_They say the dead can hear you."_

John's heart stopped. Stopped. _STOPPED_. He read the line again_. _And again_._

"_They say the dead can hear you."_

He _knew_? He had _known_ he was going to die?! Guilt crashed over John in horrendous waves. He had supposed. Had suspected, that the detective had planned it out. And he knew, even after, that it must have been done against his will. Sherlock would only have gone through with such a heinous act if something unthinkable was done to him or threatened of him. And so John had always chosen to believe that his friend had sacrificed his own life for some greater good, protecting someone or something. Blood, in great quantity, that did not match Sherlock had been found on the rooftop where everything occurred that day. And Moriarty's body was the source of it. A body which later went missing from the morgue. So John could only assume that it was the consulting criminal's hand behind all his friend's unusual actions leading up and to his suicide_. _The burden upon John grew with every passing moment. Now, not only had his friend died, but he had known _well beforehand_ that he would be sacrificing himself. Why had he not confided? _Why_?! Maybe John could have helped him, protected him... Oh, the pain was too much. He stopped the current train of thought before he was completely disabled from continuing. Deep breaths. Deep breaths. He started again.

"_They say the dead can hear you. Hear the living. Especially when the words spoken originate from the heart. And so I would ask this one last thing of you, John, my John. A last experiment, shall we say? Could you speak to me? Now? Would you? And I'll see if I can hear it. And God knows, if it be within my power, I will rearrange the solar system to give you an answer. Say my name, John. Please."_

"Sherlock," the broken man whispered, not thinking twice, just following his friend's commands as usual. "Sherlock," slightly louder, and he began to sob as read out the last lines. Truly, he could form no sentences right now. Could think of nothing to say other than the younger man's name. And he couldn't sit still any more, pacing over by the couch to stand a few feet from the window. Its panes blackened by night, rain beating against it in violent rhythms_._

"_And when you do this, could you tell me what you think? About me? About us? I know there really is no "us" as such, but I would very much like to know that you aren't bothered by all that I have revealed to you. I could never bear it had this caused you pain. You were always my brave soldier. My best, and only, friend. My heart. Please tell me I haven't broken my own heart, John._

_-SH …Today, I think. Perhaps late evening?..."_

His walls crashed down around him as he looked up at the darkened window from the last sentences his friend had ever put to paper. Heart breaking as he said the words, choked them, having to start over many times before finally getting it all out at a moderate volume. Not caring who heard and what they might think of his state of mind, he spoke, "I don't care, Sherlock. Why didn't you tell me? It's all fine; and we could've worked with it, whatever else might have happened. Your words don't pain me. No. It's mine, these words right now, that pain me, because you can't hear them. You're not _here_. I couldn't save you. You're gone. You're my best friend, and I love you more than you could have ever known. I always will."

Tears leaked unendingly from eyes that had seen too much of the world's cruelty and unfairness. The constant drum of rain against the flat gave enough background noise that his whimpers were, for the most part, blended in and softened. The sounds of the old building settling in for the night reminded him of old, creaky bones being stretched after a long sit, cracks and screeches of the boards adjusting to the temperature. Bones. Yes, there they were. Stretching before him, around him…behind him. And the bones stretching out in their agonizingly low symphony to his rear seemed out of place with the others. No time to ponder that, though, as he heard another sound that had the floor of his soul fall out, and his heart. Stopped. Again.

"John," came the almost whispered, barely audible, silky baritone. John whirled to see a tall, slim figure outlined in the doorway to the hall. His eyes adjusted slowly to the change in lighting caused from having faced out into the night for too long. Wild, dark curls stood out at all angles. Pale, almost luminescent skin contrasting starkly with the shade of blue he was adorned with. And the eyes…his eyes, those self-same light, silver-blue steely orbs that stole the breath from him with their intensity. Both trained on him. Seeing only him within their entire visual field. He felt they were possessed of a gravity completely separate of the world in which their physical forms currently resided. Sherlock. Sherlock. It was all Sherlock. Every bit.

And then he was moving, almost stumbling as his body was still too deep in shock to fully respond to the brain's demands. The dark haired man made it a few steps into the living area before being engulfed within the strong arms of John Watson. Arms that had saved lives, solved crimes, fought battles, and now held on for dear life to the best friend he had ever known. There were no words between them for now. It was enough to hold each other close, feel the world shrink to within inches of where they stood embraced. John mumbled a few unintelligible words into the fabric of the detective's shirt, and Sherlock stroked his hand up and down John's shoulder, murmuring, "I know. I know, John," as a solitary tear drop ran down the side of his face and onto his friend. His rock. His John.

A/N: Well, I _could_ end it here, but I don't think so. I think one more chapter just to get all cuddly and stuff will do it. I just wanted to get you all to this point so you'd not be left aching and wondering as some have PM'd me. LOL! We'll see when I can get it posted. If not today, then in a couple days when I'm off work again. At least you'll have semi-closure with this chapter in place, though. Hope you liked how I did it. It was a very emotional ride for me as well as the characters.


	8. Chapter 8

A/N: This has been an awesomely fun fic for me to write. I feel just as jilted emotionally as the characters I've tried to portray. And I'm so glad everyone else has, apparently, enjoyed it, too, to varying degrees. I'm wrapping it up in a bit of fluff and humor, nothing explicit, just cute. Hope it satisfies your inner need for Johnlock fluffiness!

**Of Ashes Conclusion**

John cried…

He sobbed, broken, but not alone. Not anymore. Sherlock was here. He was alive. _Alive_! And that meant everything and more to the doctor. Questions were shoved aside for the time being in favor of the reassurance of their sheer physical contact. His arms tightened at the thought of once again being able to hold his proof in his own hands. That tall, lean form wrapping itself around him as the other man whispered down into his hair brought a comfort and warmth to John's heart that no one else ever had or ever would. There was no label for this relationship. No. What they had was a special kind of understanding, of comprehension, and of sharing. The world was different for them. They did not move within its boundaries, but through them, creating their own path. But here and now, it was all John could do to stay upright.

The detective noticed the slight tremors as they first began deep within the doctor's shorter frame. Shock, but not too bad. However, as they remained close, the problem exacerbated, and it became difficult for the older man to remain standing. It was like unto a flashback from his soldiering days. Overpowering his mind and body. And so Sherlock sat him down on the couch, with a hand to his shoulder and the other ready to catch him if he outright toppled. And then they sat in silence as the fit passed its worst effects. The detective had taken up a position perhaps a foot or so beside John, but it seemed too vast to the doctor.

Noticing the confused anxiety working its way across John's features, Sherlock quickly deduced the issue. Proximity. The sandy haired man needed it. Craved it. John had him back now and wasn't quite ready to let go yet. Couldn't believe what his eyes were telling him. Perhaps he thought it might be a hallucination? And the tremors were still present slightly, exhibiting the extreme stress he remained under as his mind tried to absorb the detective's reorganized state of being. The solution was simple. If human contact and proximity were both known to provide comfort in times of crisis, then it was obvious what the detective needed to do.

John's eyes remained fixated on the dark haired man. He was almost afraid to blink. Just releasing from the embrace had given rise to a terror never known before, and he felt panicked as he sat there wondering if he was dreaming. And then, in one fluid motion, Sherlock threw one leg up and along the back of the couch to where it ran behind John, and then he leaned forward to grab the doctor's shoulders and pull him down onto his chest. He cradled his arms around John, waiting to see if this would be too much for the other man. After all, John had only said he was _fine_ with how Sherlock felt about him; he had said nothing of loving him "like that" in return. His love was of brotherhood and friendship, while Sherlock's…was not. Was more.

And initially, John did stiffen in the younger man's arms, but it was actually more in surprise of being moved so suddenly when his mind was stuck in slow-motion. As his head rested upon the chest of Sherlock Holmes, he closed his eyes and listened to the heart beneath. The long arms cradled him protectively in a cocoon of safety and love. And he relaxed into it. Felt the love his friend had for him. He even reached up at one point to graze the side of the detective's neck, feeling the coordinated bloodflow beneath his fingertips. And Sherlock let him, not reading anything into the motions, knowing that John was simply reassuring himself over and over that the detective was indeed alive. Guiltily, though, Sherlock enjoyed the closeness of their time on the couch. It was probably the only time when John would be vulnerable enough to allow something so usually romantic in nature to occur. And though it saddened him, still he would take only what the other offered. They were together, and John was okay with everything. That is all that mattered.

They lay there for perhaps an hour, both remaining silent. Sherlock knew John would speak when he finally reached that point of comfort. For now, he was content to wait. And as for John, he was deep in his own kind of thinking. Examining. Evaluating. Because as he lay there, flush against the taller man, encircled in his arms, with so much history between them, it dawned on him how right this felt. How perfect. Certainly it was different than cuddling with women. There was no curve or swell of breasts. There were no long and sexy legs leading up to flared hips and thighs. And yet…and yet…

What were those things? Physical attractions? Which were nice, sure, but they didn't make up for a dull personality or an entitled attitude. Or a lack of intelligence. And so, what was important to him? Laughter, for sure. Friendship. Fun. Happiness. Loyalty. Caring. Intelligence. Each descriptor he named off had nothing to do with gender. And no matter what desirable qualities he could think of, all of them were present within one person. Sherlock Holmes. Was he finally gay then? No, that wasn't it. Was Sherlock? Probably no definitive term had _ever_ applied to the dark haired detective. So, then, what?

He lay with eyes closed, mind racing around these ideas, and the detective gave him all the time he needed, not moving an inch. And as John lay there, he noticed something. The beating of Sherlock's heart seemed to sound off differently for him. He knew his friend must be in slight turmoil over their current physical closeness, probably worried that anything he did might be misinterpreted and scare John away. But the love flowing from the detective was palpable in its strength, impossible to miss, and John felt it just might be affecting his own mind, too, a bit. He listened intently to the rhythmic thump, thump, thump. And soon it became something else. A word or two. Alternating every now and then. So right, and so very Sherlock. Thump, thump, thump, thump, mine, mine, mine, mine, John, John, John, John, thump, thump, thump, thump…

He smiled, thoughts trailing away. And with them, his doubts. He turned slightly in the younger man's arms, peering up into his face. The eyes were closed for now. Probably trying to decrease the stimulus of the moment by taking away the visual components. Sherlock's way of remaining calm. John smiled then, and reached out his hand to run it lightly down the arm draped in front of his face. The eyelids fluttered. He repeated his action, this time not as lightly, so there could be no mistaking the motion for what it was. An invitation. An entreaty. An apology for not realizing this so much sooner.

The pale blue-gray irises shown down on him, questioning his motives. He smiled. Sherlock barely rasped out a question as he saw a look he never thought he'd see reflecting back at him in John's eyes, "John?" And he hoped against hope that he wasn't just seeing things that he wanted to see as he waited for a response. John twisted some more, turning almost all the way to face the detective before reaching that same hand up to run down the line of the dark haired man's jaw. He watched as the breath hitched in Sherlock's chest, and he answered, "It's fine, Sherlock. It's all fine." Then he changed his caress into a pull, and brought the detective's lips to his own in an awkward, bumbling, earth-shattering, electrifying, and world-building first kiss.

It couldn't have been more wonderful, cramped necks and all. The angle was bad, the temperature too hot, and the couch too difficult to maneuver on…and yet still it took every ounce of the doctor's self-control to not pass out from the giddiness that filled his heart. It smoothed over the chipped places in his soul that Sherlock's death had eroded, and it built it up stronger than before. Sherlock himself could not even begin to grasp his change of fortune as he kissed John. It was too much for his brilliant mind to take in. Everything, all the data, everywhere, overwhelming… And then, there it was. The silence. The peace. Perfect. Only John Watson could ever accomplish the complete rebooting of the detective's hard drive. Beautiful. So beautiful… And then they both came back to reality as they heard a crash in the hallway.

Reaching the door, they saw Mrs. Hudson out cold, tea tray spread out around her. She must've seen Sherlock and passed out. John checked her all over, noting with satisfaction that it did, indeed, appear to just be a case of emotional syncope. He smiled up at the detective as he began to chuckle. And it was infectious. Sherlock's low rumbling laughter began from his belly and then resounded throughout the flat as he and John cleared the glass bits away from their landlady and placed a pillow beneath her head. She would wake momentarily, and so they waited.

However, in a few minutes, a loud commotion was heard outside on the street, car doors slamming and shoes slapping the pavement. So late at night, it could only mean something bad. Perhaps there was a police chase or a robbery? They had no time to voice their speculations to each other, though, before the front door to the flat burst open. Lestrade leaped up the stairs and almost ran over the three hall dwellers in his haste. "Wha… John? What.." And then he saw, really _saw_, Sherlock there on the floor beside the doctor. "Oh my bloody arse! _Sherlock_?! Is it really _you_ there, or have I had too much of a night cap?" He half sat, half fell, on the floor beside them, dazedly trying to come to terms with this revelation.

John was about to reply when another figure appeared hastily through the front door, also almost running over their little group at the top of the landing. The expression on Mycroft's face, though, was truly priceless as he stood staring for several long moments. _Snick_. The little sound effect of Lestrade's camera phone that was pointed at him brought him back to himself. He adjusted his expression somewhat, still unable to keep the complete surprise off of it, and tried to speak, but he was unable to get it out. And so he, too, flopped down around Mrs. Hudson's supine form, all of them gazing back and forth, seeking the direction to begin.

John was the first to speak, "Alright. Out with it. Why in the hell are you both here? _I_ just found this out because he came to the flat," he gestured to Sherlock, "But how did you two catch wind of it?" And it was Lestrade who regained composure first and pointed to Mrs. Hudson. "Her emergency alert necklace. I guess she landed on it when she fell. I have all my friends addresses programmed within the alert system so that I'm notified if any of them ever dials the emergency line." He looked at Mycroft, saying further, "I imagine he has something similar, if more high-techy."

Another minute or so of silence passed between them all. Mrs. Hudson had started twitching a bit as if sleeping. Sherlock couldn't care less how long they sat there. He was with John, and that's what mattered. He looked down happily at their clasped hands. This in turn caught the notice of both Mycroft and Lestrade. They each took no longer than a second or two to fit the puzzle together. "Bloody hell! _Really_?" the Detective Inspector exclaimed, and John shyly nodded his confirmation as Sherlock just smiled. "Well, then. It'd be about bloody time, I suppose. What with you dying and all, Sherlock." Mycroft merely looked on in even deeper puzzlement at this newly admitted fact, seeming to sway under the impact of it.

Suddenly, Mrs. Hudson's eyes opened, and she took in all of their faces surrounding her. They looked down in mild surprise, as they had all but forgotten her in their varying degrees of shock. She turned her head side to side, eyes resting on Sherlock for longer than the others before asking, "Am I dead? Is this my funeral?" Silence greeted her remarks at first. And then, again, the deep, rolling, and rumbling laughter of Sherlock Holmes rebounded off the walls and throughout the flat at 221B Baker Street.

E/N: Wow. That. Was. Fun. Hope you all had a good time. I know I did. And I highly recommend watching the youtube video by enitaris called "Johnlock - Stay." It is 4 minutes and 13 seconds of pure, dedicated fan video creation. Holy crap. Watch that video after reading my fic. Makes it PERFECT. Thanks again for coming along this journey with me!


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